


the only living boy in new york

by storytellingape



Category: Dredd (2012), Immaturity for Charity, Saturday Night Live, Star Wars - All Media Types, While We're Young (2014)
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Crossover Pairings, Eventual Romance, Gay Sex, Grumpy Old Men, Kylux Adjacent Ship, M/M, New York City
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 20:56:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16227176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storytellingape/pseuds/storytellingape
Summary: Life is not all peachy keen for Mr. O'Brien -- the nanny of an oil baron's heir.





	the only living boy in new york

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chifuyu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chifuyu/gifts).



> This fic is between [O'Brien](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CNKfN5MyXug) from the "Roll Call" Immaturity for Charity skit, and Abraham H. Parnassus from Adam's "[Career Day](https://www.globaltv.com/saturdaynightlive/video/clips/career-day/video.html?v=1333226051525)" SNL Skit. 
> 
> Jamie is from the film "While We're Young" --[another character Adam has played](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LmPx69nl5YA)
> 
> Many thanks to all the enablers on twitter dot com, especially [Yananiris](https://twitter.com/Yananiris/status/1046567548337164288) who suggested Brian as O'Brien's first name. 
> 
> Contains references to one of my favourite movies of all time _The Royal Tenenbaums_ and cross-over pairings. Also as a non-NY I may have gotten the geography wrong. Please do tell me where corrections are due!
> 
> Also for your perusal: [heh.](https://twitter.com/softgingertwink/status/1046855350245253122)

 

* * *

 

 

The commute to 111 Archer Avenue takes approximately forty minutes. Then there’s the detour to pick up Parnassus’ coffee — tall, medium roast, no sweetener — from the ancient deli across the street that doubles as a new age shop in its in between hours. 

Despite his best efforts, Brian is always late though it’s not as if he can ever tell when his shifts end or begin. Parnassus doesn’t keep a strict schedule; the day commences at whatever hour he decides to get out of bed. Sometimes, he doesn’t leave his room at all and Brian suspects he never sleeps which will account for the unflappably irritable mood and the dark rings under his eyes.

He is constantly razzed for being unpunctual, never mind the fact that he goes well beyond the call of duty to be at Parnassus’ every beck and call. After the housekeeper quits, he starts picking up the dry-cleaning and accompanies Parnassus to his bi-monthly tennis lessons at the Richmond Racquet Club. When two of Parnassus’ acquaintances die weeks apart of each other, Brian chaperones him to their funerals and even helps write their eulogies. 

Parnassus, the old kook, lives in a three-story townhouse deep in the heart of Hamilton Heights, a respectable series of red bricks and high turrets and beautiful French windows fringed with dust and overgrown holly. Over the years as the world moved and the neighborhood shifted, the house gave away to age and poor upkeep. Inside tells more or less the same story: echoes of a life of opulence, an age gone by. There’s mold in the ceiling, mice running through the pipes at night; the paisley walls show toothy gaps, and most of the doors have broken locks. 

The house is full of skeletons, literally so because Parnassus used to collect animal skeletons in his youth, birds’ mostly. Some of his prized possessions include a taxidermied crow sitting in a place of honor in his study. He had his pet cat Hubert stuffed after he had outlived it and now it is forever frozen in stasis and posed ubiquitously by the fireplace, its beady eyes shiny and unblinking and watching Brian’s every move.

These things used to terrify Brian but now he lets himself inside the house with hardly any fuss; he uses the brass key Parnassus keeps hidden in a flower pot outside and once in the foyer, flips through the stack of mail left to accumulate on the dresser-top. Most of them are bills, half of which are overdue: the water, the gas, the electricity. There is the stray postcard from a distant relative vacationing in Florida, and the usual invitation to a society event which Parnassus tends to ignore.

Brian wends his way to the kitchen where he begins the delicate process of preparing Parnassus’ breakfast starting with transferring his coffee from the styrofoam cup it came in into his favourite chipped mug. It’s fine; it’s rote. He can do it with his eyes closed. It’s something he’s used to doing often enough. Now that the housekeeper has quit he takes the breakfast tray up to Parnassus’ room, knocking on his door three times to alert him to his presence. No answer, but that’s to be expected. Parnassus probably still has his earplugs on. Sometimes he forgets to take them out even during the day, resulting in very loud conversations on public transport punctuated by wild gesticulating. 

The master bedroom is one of the few rooms in the house still in pristine condition. The furniture is still completely intact: awinged-back chair in gorgeous silk brocade sits by the high windows, the carpets an authentic Savonnerie pattern; there’s a variety of other bric-a-brac here and there, the accumulation of a life long and well-lived: an original Chagal painting of a goat playing a violin on the far wall, a large leather trunk with a heavy padlock, the remains of an antique desk lamp lying in pieces on the floor, smashed during one of Parnassus’ infamous fits.

Brian sets the tray down on the nightstand, collecting laundry, setting things upright. Parnassus considers it an affront to be greeted by the morning sun first thing in the morning so Brian leaves the curtains dutifully shut, the room shrouded in musty blue-black darkness as he nudges him on the shoulder gently. No response except a hitch in his snoring. 

Brian remains standing by Parnassus’ bedside for quite a while, watching him sleep with his face furled in dreaming like a wrinkled fist and his hands clenched tightly against the heavy blankets. He looks like he’s sleeping hard, the rest of the road-weary.

Brian doesn’t know how long he stands there with his arms swaddled in day-old laundry, waiting for Parnassus to open his eyes before finally leaving to wake Mordecai for breakfast.

*

The truth is: Brian had followed a boy to New York. 

When people ask him what he’s doing here, so far from home, he often sidesteps the question or makes a joke out of it, says he’s here for work, for leisure, for any number of things, when in reality he’s here because he fell in love. Of all the trite cliches.

The boy’s name was Jamie and he had sad brown eyes and a smirking mouth and he fucked like he was training for the Olympics. Brian was completely weak for him. He thought they had something. But that something lasted all of six weeks, drained a sizeable percentage of his savings, and left him without prospects after he had outed himself to his family and declared he was going to follow his heart.

He should have known better— following your heart was something that went out of fad in the late nineties — but he’s twenty-nine and stupid and prone to falling in love with boys who show him even a modicum of kindness. Sentiment like that never fares well in this economy, which is why Brian considers himself lucky that he landed this gig at all. It may not be what he went to university for but money is money and nobody wants to hire an immigrant with virtually zero credentials.

At least it’s something. And the job is simple enough: look after Parnassus’ five year old son and make sure he doesn’t swallow anything toxic or burn his hand on the stove or accidentally leap to his death from the fire escape. It’s pretty easy, even an idiot can do it with their eyes closed; the kid hardly talks to anyone. 

When Mordie — short for Mordecai — wants something, it’s never a problem as he often goes to get it himself, else he looks searchingly at Brian hoping to get his point across. If a toy is placed on the topmost shelf, he tugs at Brian’s sleeve to draw his attention. When he’s feeling ill, he usually asks if he could see the family doctor. 

This behavior used to unnerve Brian — he’s never met a kid like him before — but like everything else that his job entails (the late night hours, the roach infestation, the sporadic trips to Midtown to deliver handwritten notes of apology) he gets used to it too. 

These days it’s easier to do certain things without thinking.

*

Brian shouldn’t even be working on Sundays but he doesn’t remember ever signing a contract that said he couldn’t work on weekends so he shows up to accompany Parnassus to his tennis lessons. It’s hardly work anyway: all he has to do is ferry Parnassus from Harlem to Hell’s Kitchen without any incident. 

They take the subway to the Richmond Racquet Club despite Parnassus’ general distrust of public transportation. Parnassus loathes crowds and loud conversations but hates cabs even more so and despite Brian’s many assurances that Uber is a safe and convenient alternative, Parnassus is of the mind that the government will be tracking him. He seats himself in the back car where a variety of kooks often go to sit: the hungover, the stoned, the dangerously malcontent. 

Mordie is sandwiched between the two of them, swinging his little legs back and forth as he watches the concrete scenery slide by. They make a motley crew, dressed in running shorts and cotton shirts with short sleeves and smart collars, Brian even wearing a premature sun visor. He burns easily under the sun. It’s part and parcel of being ginger and having come from one of the bleakest fish towns in Northern Ireland; he’s more likely to get a stroke than to develop a nice glowing tan. 

Parnassus has the tennis court reserved for the next two hours. His instructor — lively, young, _peppy_ — waves as soon as she spots them, jogging over to meet them halfway before pointing accusingly at Parnassus with a tennis racket.

“Mister Parnassus, you’re late!” she says though she’s grinning from ear to ear. She has a soft English accent and perfect white teeth. Her hair is bisected into buns. She looks like she can thrown Brian down despite her size. 

Parnassus waves both hands in dismissal, the effect less compelling now without the aid of his cane which he opted to leave at home lest he loses it in the subway. “Pah! My dear,” he says in a theatrical sort of voice, the same one he uses to announce his presence in any room, “I am never late! Only the poor are late. Only the poor!”

_Right_ , Brian thinks, and coughs into his hand. He and the instructor share an awkward little smile before she crouches down on one knee to grin at Mordie. Mordie’s fingers tighten noticeably in Brian’s shirt where he’s clutching him like a lifeline, half-hidden from view and peering at her from behind him. 

“Ah, I see we have a new visitor today. Is he your son? He has your eyes. Hi, little guy!” 

Mordie quickly darts behind Brian. He almost never meets new people so he’s understandably shy around strangers, more so, Brian notices, around pretty women, though he takes their adoration with a degree of consternation, as if he’s too old now to be the subject of such incessant fussing. 

Brian pats him on the shoulder. As the only child to parents who had him so late in life, he understands the feeling. His parents doted on him relentlessly until the day he told them he maybe liked boys more than he liked girls, then their eyes turned cold. He misses it from time to time, being a kid, the apple of his parents’ eye. Having people who loved him without question and who thought the sun shone out of his arse. Now he’s in New York with no one and nothing: no home and no people.

“Speaking of children,” says Parnassus after a long pause of watching the exchange. “This is my son’s nanny Barnaby. I don’t believe the two of you have met. He’s twenty-nine. _Irish_. Hence the coloring of his hair. You two will have a lot in common being both European. Of course, he’s perpetually late to everything but I’m working to help rid him of his loutish tendencies. ”

“It’s actually _Brian_ not Barnaby,” Brian says, trying and failing to keep his expression neutral; he ought to get used to it by now, Parnassus never gets his name right. Brian can feel the corners of his lip curling and he fights the embarrassed little huff that warps his tone. “I’m more like a tutor, I would say? I teach Mordie how to read and we sometimes do a little bit of maths. It’s not always play time and cleaning up after him when he does a poo although he does that quite a lot.”

Mordie punches him weakly on the back. Brian grins. 

“I’m Rey, by the way. Nice to meet you, Brian _._ ” At least she gets his name right. Her smile can _thaw_ snowdrifts. Brian can feel the genuineness seeping through her pores. With some people you can just tell. In New York, you come across all sorts, the bad, the good, the just plain strange, so it’s surprising when once in a while you meet people who are openly friendly and relaxed. Brian still has a long way to go: he trusts no one and has put up so many walls which is why, he thinks sometimes, during his darkest hours, it could never have worked with Jamie. Not ever. 

Rey shakes his hand as they exchange smalltalk and then Parnassus’ lessons begin. 

It’s a beginner’s class: they go through basic form and footwork. Parnassus may not be a spring chicken but he’s light on his feet and surprisingly spry for someone his age and he only throws a fit once when his serve lands outside the service box. After half an hour of spectating, Mordie announces that he’s bored so Brian takes him to the adjacent court where they pretend to play tennis and then just start trying to hit each other with balls, laughing, dodging, running around like loons. 

This makes Mordie work up an appetite so Brian fetches him some snacks. He emerges victorious five minutes later after wrestling with the vending machine, armed with more $1 junk than he knows what to do with. As he’s approaching Mordie where he’s waiting by the benches, Brian notices a man talking to him. He seems harmless enough, friendly if Mordie’s astonished giggle is anything to go by.

“Hey Mordie, who’s your friend?”

Then the man looks at Brian and Brian blinks. His face looks really familiar but in a way that Brian can’t quite place. Which is not to say that it isn’t unique because it is in every conceivable way: a strong nose, an expressive mouth, dark broody eyes and wavy hair tied in a ponytail. This guy looks like he belongs in a Levis ad campaign. Handsome men often intimidated Brian and he tries his best to steer clear of them ever since that mishap with Jamie, but this guy…he looks, well, a little sweet. 

“Is he your son?” he asks Brian, taking him completely off guard.

Brian forces out a laugh. He gets that question a lot, though usually people aren’t so upfront about it. “I’m just looking after him,” he says, too mortified to call himself a nanny. He hands Mordie a packet of fig newtons and a bottle of diet coke which Mordie stares at before reluctantly accepting.

“I haven’t seen you around here before,” the man says as they stand around to watch Mordie eat. It’s an unseasonably warm day but that’s not why Brian’s face is heating up. “You a new member?”

Brian shrugs. Keep it vague and mysterious, he thinks, and maybe he’ll get a shot with this guy. “I guess you could say that.”

“ _Huh_ ,” the man says, and this makes Brian look up from staring at his shoes so he can watch as the man’s gaze slides over to Brian’s shoulder. Brian glances behind him: sure enough, it’s Parnassus, of course it is, stomping over all ruddy-faced from lessons. The man nods at Brian, once, then takes his leave and Brian watches him go with a kind of deep-seated mournfulness reminiscent of a lost opportunity or waking up from a coma to discover a missing limb. 

Parnassus just snorts and shakes his head. “Benjamin Solo?” he says. Finally: a name to the face.

“He was just being friendly,” Brian defends.

“Yes, well,” Parnassus huffs. “I’ll warn you now, Barnaby: that boy is bad news. Bad news! He’s an obsessive masturbator. I knew his grandfather. They’re all masturbators. It’s the private schools. They never got over it.”

“Right,” Brian says, completely horrified but not sure what else to say. He has half the mind to cover Mordie’s ears but he’s thankfully too busy trying to uncap his coke bottle to pay any attention to their conversation.

“I only have your best interest in mind, my boy,” Parnassus tells him as they watch Benjamin become a smaller and smaller speck in the distance. “You’re going to thank me later, you know.”

Later will be a long time coming, Brian thinks.

*

“I need a haircut,” Parnassus decides one day, peering into the water-spotted mirror in the foyer, squinting at his own reflection. He checks his teeth, tilting his face this way and that as if inspecting whether it had changed in detail over night. Then he shakes his head, displeased by whatever it is he sees.

Brian pretends he isn’t watching him from the corner of his eye where he’s helping Mordie with a 250-piece Harry Potter puzzle, holding his breath and waiting for the shoe to drop. 

“Are you going out?” Brian asks when Parnassus stomps up the stairs presumably in a huff.He doesn’t respond. Minutes later he re-emerges with a towel and pair of scissors. 

“To the kitchen!” Parnassus tells Brian. He and Mordie share a look before Mordie shrugs. Best to see what Parnassus wants and get it over with right away. Brian pushes himself off his lotus-position off the floor and finds Parnassus waiting by the kitchen counter, an old towel wrapped around his shoulders, and tapping his foot as if Brian had made him wait hours instead of mere minutes. He hands Brian a pair of sharp silver scissors that Brian is sure is probably not intended for hair though the blades look lethal enough to slice through anything. 

Brian handles it with shaking hands, like an infant.

“I don’t think you need a haircut,” Brian lies, in an attempt to deflect from the task altogether. Sharp objects make him nervous; Parnassus makes him nervous. It’s not a great combination. In the first two weeks of working for the man, Brian never once had a bowel movement. He had very disconcerting dreams, all involving crows. One was vaguely sexual in nature but he chalks that up to his roommate constantly having loud sex in the next room, some sort of residual arousal.

“You don’t think I need a haircut?” Parnassus cries out incredulously. “Look at me: my hair is like a bird’s nest! Do you know what sloppiness says? It says I’m weak, it says I’m self-indulgent. It says I’m sexually unsatisfied.”

Brian blinks and scratches his left elbow. “I don’t even know how to cut hair,” he says, eventually, leaving out the question of whether Parnassus is even satisfied. _Ever_. Sexually. It’s upsetting to even think about. He might need a stiff drink afterwards. 

“What you don’t know could fill an ocean,” Parnassus tells him. He is always full of quips that used to hurt Brian’s feelings but now he just shrugs them off and feels sheepish. True enough; he can be a bit dull. But it’s only because the un-dull parts would appall Parnassus if he ever found out about them: his taste in men for example, the fact that when he was a kid he constantly lied about remembering to pray whenever his parents asked him.

“It’s just a trim. I don’t need a stylish bob or a fringe. I just want my hair neatened, Barnaby.”

“You know you could just pay someone to do it,” Brian suggests. “Like an actual professional. And my name is not Barnaby.”

“And let my twenty dollars go to waste?” Parnassus snorts. “What do I even pay you for? My barber died of a stroke in ’02. My hair has never been the same ever since.”

Parnassus seats himself at the kitchen table and Brian sighs and stands behind him, touching him, he realizes, for what must be the first time. It’s just hair, he tells himself, when he makes the first snip; the blade glistens when it catches the light. Brian tries not to take in deep breaths of Parnassus’ scent: subtle with aftershave, with noticeable woodsy notes here and there. It’s very _him,_ not bad, just distinct, and not like how old people often smelled like. Brian is ashamed for a moment for thinking it, but it’s true. Old people had a distinct odor. Parnassus didn’t. But then again he’s quite unlike anyone Brian has ever met, ever the outlier. He still doesn’t own a mobile phone. He refuses to get WIFI.

Parnassus’ hair is thick, silky, because like everything else except the house, he cares for it with utmost tenderness and devotion. Brian saw an old picture of him once, with his hair still dark and full. His smile had been sweet and hopeful. He was Brian’s age in that picture. Brian wouldn’t have minded meeting him then. Before he turned into … well, whatever person he is now. 

Brian finishes trimming two inches off Parnassus’ hair. He works in silence for all of ten minutes before stepping back and providing Parnassus with a handheld a mirror. “Well, it could have gone a lot worse,” Parnassus says, then brushes off the locks of hair peppering his shoulders. 

Brian grabs a broom and dustpan, getting ready to clean the mess on the floor. Parnassus is almost as messy as Mordecai. They have that in common at least, always leaving things behind and expecting someone else to clean up after them. Like father, like son.

Parnassus runs a hand through his hair, the action aborted once he realizes, probably, that his hairline has been lost to time. He looks embarrassed for a moment catching himself in the act then he nods at Brian stiffly. 

“You should appreciate your hair while you still have it. It’s a beautiful color. Red never goes out of vogue.”

“Thank you,” Brian says, strangely touched.

“Oh, that wasn’t a compliment,” Parnassus reminds him, because of course it isn’t. “That’s just sound advice.”

*

Brian’s job doesn’t just entail looking after Mordie. He looks after Parnassus too, though that goes without saying. Parnassus seems to be under the impression that Brian is some sort of personal assistant cum indentured servant, there to fulfill a number of obligations that are way above his pay grade. 

“Barnaby!” Parnassus calls from his bedroom. Brian sighs and immediately sets down the armful of laundry he’d just hauled out of the washing machine. He finds Parnassus in his bed, lying on his back with half of his face buried in his pillow. Mordie hovers over him, hands pressed to his mouth.

“He’s dying,” Mordie whispers.

Parnassus gives him an incredulous look before waving him off, Mordie’s cue to gasp and then scamper out of the room. Then he turns his attention on Brian who is wearing an apron over his clothes and a pair of yellow rubber gloves after having done three days’ worth of dishes. “I’ll need help with my back,” he announces. 

“All right.” Brian says, carefully. “What do you need help with exactly?”

“My back.”

Brian doesn’t understand. He just stands there staring blankly at Parnassus. Sometimes playing stupid works in his favor and Parnassus lets him off the hook. Other times, he sees right through him. This is one of those times.

“I would call my physical therapist but everyone is on holiday this time of the year,” Parnassus snorts derisively. He shakes his head as if going on holiday is something to be scoffed at, a flaw of character or else a sign of a personal weakness.

“Right,” Brian says. “What do you want me to do?”

Maybe he shouldn’t have asked that question because then Parnassus points to the tube of Bengay sitting on the nightstand. It’s an innocuous piece of plastic but it takes two maybe three seconds before Brian’s brain catches up with him. Then he peels off his rubber gloves and detachedly sets them down on the nightstand before taking the tube of Bengay and seating himself next to Parnassus on the bed. He wants to die a little. _Of mortification_. He doesn’t know whether he wants to touch Parnassus. He’s never touched an old person before, not in this capacity, and this is different from when he’d been asked to cut his hair. He reminds himself it’s not as if Parnassus had asked him to touch his dick. Brian hugged his grandparents often enough before they died within years of each other and he remembers the soft paperiness of their skin, the distinct smell of their hair. 

Parnassus is in his early sixties, his hairline severely receded, his hands marked with liver spots, but he doesn’t remind Brian of his grandparents in any way, shape, or form. He’s neither doting nor loving; he loathes most children but his own. And he wears a suit to any kind of social function. Brian has never seen him in trousers and a shirt. He wears pajamas to bed in gradients of black and blue. Brian wants to ask him if he has any normal clothes but he’s afraid Parnassus will sidestep the question or worse yet call him an imbecile for even daring to ask.

When he lifts Parnassus’ shirt to his shoulders, he doesn’t know what he’s expecting. It’s just a normal back, flecked here and there with a variety of moles, broad and tapering down to a trim waist. Parnassus likes to take care of his body. He’d joked once that it was the only thing he had left. He’d been careless in his spending in the last few decades of his life and has slowly started auctioning off the prized paintings in his collection. His wife was nowhere in the picture. Brian keeps getting conflicting accounts that she had died or that she had left him.

“Should I start now?” He asks, warming his hands, his heart thudding a scar against his ribs. He doesn’t know why he’s so nervous.

“Quickly, quickly,” Parnassus says, “Before death beats you to it, my boy.”

“Right.” Then Brian puts his hands on him and: nothing. Nothing happens. Parnassus sighs in relief when Brian’s hands start to knead his trapezius. He’s just a man, Brian tells himself. He shouldn’t be so afraid of him. The thought is both mystifying and strange but it is knowledge that has been hiding in plain sight all along: Parnassus doesn’t bite. He’s like one of those big dogs that look scary on the onset, big teeth, loud bark, but at the end of the day it’s all for show. 

“You have such poor pressure,” Parnassus murmurs, “My mother is eighty-four and she has more upper body strength.”

“I’m trying my best Mr. Parnassus,” Brian tells him though he’s surprised to learn Parnassus’ mother is still alive. 

He’s expecting a snappish answer but Parnassus just grunts and lets him resume his work with his hands. “Well, I suppose you are,” he concedes after a moment.

There is no more talk after that. Finally Brian finishes, which is when Parnassus’ eyes start to slip shut. He returns the tube of Bengay to its home on the nightstand, grabs his yellow rubber gloves. He’s not expecting Parnassus’ hand to shoot out all of a sudden and grab his wrist just when he’s about to leave. 

“You have delicate hands,” Parnassus says, apropos of nothing, but it’s just like him to make his unsolicited observations known. He hums thoughtfully, his grip firm around Brian’s wrist, a kind and gentle pressure. Brian doesn’t even think about shaking it off; he’s shocked to stillness but doesn’t mind it. He lets it play out. 

“These hands are not suited to hard labor at all,” Parnassus continues, “The bones are all weak, frail like a bird’s. But ah, look at my hands. Old, wrinkled. A peasant’s hands.” 

“They’re big,” Brian supplies, which is true enough: bigger than Brian’s, the fingers thick, long. Parnassus turns Brian’s hand over and over again to examine the lines in his palm. Brian got his palms read once, by some mystic in Brooklyn who hung a rope of tassel around his shoulders and charged him $19.99 for the service though she said she couldn’t get a good read on him — too many diverging lines in his palms which points to a number of lives he has yet to live or has already lived. 

Different paths to choose, each one shaping a different fate, and yet he still falls into the same dead-end patterns and rhythms that lead him nowhere. Things could have been different, if he didn’t follow Jamie to New York, if he weren’t so weak to affection, if he had just stayed put in his little flat in Dublin working a 9 to 5 job. He could have been ruthless, ambitious, with an actual career that paid money, but he was raised in a Catholic household that taught him to be quiet and meek, and now he’s here in New York, with no clue what he’s doing with the rest of his life.

Parnassus runs a thumb along the valleys of Brian’s knuckles and it makes Brian shiver, the touch wholly unexpected. Parnassus doesn’t seem to realize that he’s doing it because then he says, “What? What? Did you say something.” 

“Nothing,” Brian says, and Parnassus lets his hand drop abruptly. Just like that. Whatever empathy Brian has for him in that moment dissipates, leaving him vaguely disoriented and confused, like waking up from a long beautiful dream. 

“I think little Mordecai wants to play,” Parnassus says.

When Brian scrunches his face in question, Parnassus gestures to the door. 

Mordecai is peering through the gap hopefully, still reluctant to step inside. “Off you go,” Parnassus tells him, waving Brian off, as if he’s some sort of child that needs his permission.

*

Matt is prone to dropping onto all fours to do push ups, yelling instead of whispering, and he almost always forgets to turn the light off in the kitchen. He drinks milk straight from the carton, sleeps with the television on, and is the type of person to attempt to fix things rather than call an expert to take a look at the problem, thereby making it even worse. 

They’re not friends, strictly speaking, but he isn’t such a bad guy to get to know. As far as roommates go, Brian could’ve done a lot worse: there was that one guy in Brooklyn who kept a collection of dolls’ heads. So what if Matt’s half of the apartment is filthy and always smells like BO? Matt covered Brian’s share of the rent the month he was out of a job and he’s totally understanding of Brian’s late night hours and unexplained fascination for what makes for bad American TV. Now he’s cashing in on that favor: he needs Brian to leg it while he and his boyfriend spend their first year anniversary banging each other’s brains out as if it’s not something they already do on the regular. 

They met on Reddit; it’s a classic love story, or so Matt keeps saying at every opportunity that arises to insinuate his boyfriend into any conversation. They could be talking about the rust in the plumbing, and he’ll say something like how Techie’s hair is the same shade of red when lit by the afternoon sun. 

“Anyway,” he says, looming into Brian’s space, in track bottoms with no shirt on. “I’ll need you to make yourself scarce. I don’t want you harshing my mellow.”

“Harshing your — what?”

Matt levels him with a look. Brian knows when he’s not wanted so he doesn’t press the issue and promises to be elsewhere when the magical evening begins. Besides, there’s only so much moaning one can withstand hearing when one is not having sex. Brian has nowhere to go, so he fucks off to Harlem on a Saturday night. No friends, no money, nothing even remotely in the way of a hobby to keep himself occupied. And twenty nine years old. Is he having some sort of life crisis? Some days he wishes he had a vice, like drinking or taking hard drugs, to soften the experience of staring blankly at the wall wondering if Jamie will ever return his messages.

He’s spent the night at Parnassus’ before, more out of necessity than personal choice after running too tired to catch the last train home. He doubts Parnassus will care if he suddenly shows up to crash at his place. He didn’t notice that first time, or the second or the third. Brian doubts he’ll start now. 

When he lets himself in through the front door at 8PM, everyone including the house is asleep except for Mordie who’s reading in bed with a book propped open in his lap. He’s wearing mismatched pjs and donning a pirate hat with crossbones made of felt which means he’s either dressed himself tonight or his father may have had a hand in it. 

“Brian?” he says, when Brian peers inside his bedroom to make his presence known. He relaxes and lets out a relieved smile. “You’re here!” 

Mordie throws his book aside and cannonballs straight into Brian, hugging his waist and squeezing the life out of him as if they haven’t seen each other in the last few days. It took months before he finally got comfortable speaking more than five words to Brian that wasn’t please pass me the ketchup, much less hug him so openly. He used to be so quiet, nervous as a mouse in the presence of his father, terrified to make a peep. That’s how they’re living their lives anyhow: under one roof and never so much as crossing each other’s paths. 

Parnassus isn’t cold or negligent — Brian wouldn’t have been hired otherwise if he didn’t care about Mordecai — he just has no idea what to do with a child that was the only reminder of his failed marriage and his dead wife. The two are not mutually exclusive, or so Brian has heard. But he hears a lot of things about Parnassus that no one can refute or deny: that he made his fortune running ties with the mob, that he’s a crook, a complete sham, and he’s not who he really says he is, not from old money. 

Brian muses Mordie’s hair which is badly tangled from having dried wet straight from the shower. “You wore your Batman pjs, huh,” he observes. “Is your dad asleep?”

Mordie shrugs. Of course he doesn’t know or care. He’s five years old. “Are you spending the night?”

“Yeah,” Brian sighs. He drops his backpack on the floor, bulging with stuff; he brought his favourite pillow because he couldn’t stand sleeping anywhere without the comforting smell of it. He bought his laptop too though the WIFI connection was really poor as he had to leech it from the neighbor. 

“Can I sleep here?” he asks Mordie, raising his eyebrows hopefully and grinning, “I’ll lay out some blankets on the floor.”

“It’ll be like a sleepover then, we can even build a fort,” Mordie tells him, already getting excited and hopping from foot to foot. “Then you can read me a bedtime story!”

Brian laughs. _Kids_. They always make life seem so easy.

*

When Mordie is asleep, curled on his side on the floor like a little comma, Brian carries him back to his bed and tucks him in, slipping off his pirate hat. It’s 11PM and he has nothing better to do so he prepares for bed and brushes his teeth in the only bathroom without moldy tiling which is down the hall with a window that overlooks the street outside. It’s an old house, bits of it are rotting everywhere, and Parnassus had even joked once that he himself felt like parts of him were rotting off so he moved and moved to remind himself constantly that he was still alive. 

Brian wills himself to sleep, tossing and turning on the comforters spread across the floor. But he keeps hearing all these noises coming from different parts of the house: the skittering of mice in the ceiling, the drip drip drip of the tap in the kitchen, the distant hum of the fridge across the hall. Half of it is only his imagination, surely, but he storms out of the room and checks all the sinks just in case. A dog is barking outside.

As he’s walking back to Mordie’s room, he happens to pass Parnassus’ study. With the door ajar Brian glimpses him briefly, still at his desk, orating from the sound of it. It’s no secret that Parnassus likes the sound of his own voice. Brian can’t really blame him. When he isn’t getting into arguments with people who work in customer service, his cadence takes a kind of melodic quality. 

Like Clark Gable and Humphrey Bogart in their early years before people dreamed in technicolor, Parnassus speaks with the kind of theatrical gravitas redolent of a time gone by. Not for the first time Brian wonders what he has been like when he was young, before he lost most of his hair and his good humor. 

“Still here?”

Brian almost trips on nothing. He dips his head sheepishly, surprised at getting caught when he’d been so quiet.

“It’s Saturday.” He gets the weekends off. Parnassus knows he shouldn’t be here. 

“Oh,” Parnassus says, his turn to be sheepish. ”Well, my boy, when you get to be my age, you lose track of time.” He gestures for Brian to enter.

“Come,” he beckons with two fingers. “Join me for a little night cap.” He lifts a snifter of brandy to punctuate his point. Brian never pegged him for a brandy man, scotch maybe or whiskey, but then there is a lot he still doesn’t know about him, things that still surprise him. Everything he knows about Parnassus he gleaned from the months spent working for him, bits and pieces of a life only hinted at, and from the gossip from people in his employ: the driver Jacques, the housekeeper who quit, the exterminator Parnassus would always call when the pest problem got out of control. They all tell different stories.

Brian seats himself in the far corner but Parnassus beckons him closer to the desk. Brian has only been in his study once, when it had been unlocked and he and Mordie had been playing hide and seek. He snuck inside without thinking and it was like catching a fleeting glimpse of someone’s private journal, accidentally reading their secrets. And Brian knows all about secrets. He didn’t tell his parents he liked boys for a long time after all.

Parnassus’ study, like his bedroom, has been kept in good condition. This is a man who enjoyed the finer things in life. The walls are covered in oil paintings, some Brian recognizes, some he doesn’t. An entire shelf of hardback books covers the wall behind Parnassus: French, German, Russian literature, encyclopedias. There are no personal photographs displayed anywhere. The lamps light the room with a dreamlike glow. 

Parnassus pours him a glass of brandy which Brian accepts with some trepidation. He’s rarely alone in a room with him, unless that time he had asked for a back massage counted and the request for a haircut. Mordie has always acted as a kind of buffer, shielding Brian from the impact of Parnassus’ ire.

“Is it true what they say about the luck of the Irish?”

The first swallow goes down hard, burning Brian’s throat. “W-what?” he splutters. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re from Ireland aren’t you?”

“Well, yes,” Brian says.

“The Irish are supposed to be lucky,” Parnassus tells him, as if this is something Brian should know about his heritage and therefore feel ashamed that he doesn’t. He gives Brian a meaningful look. “I myself used to have such luck. Oil is not a business for the weak, you know. And then…” Parnassus trails off, his expression seemingly far away for a moment, smoothening into something that almost resembles regret and sadness. It doesn’t suit him. Brian is caught off guard by the openness of his expression. 

“Well, here we are, I suppose,” Parnassus says before taking a pull of his drink. His hands are sure around the bottle of brandy when he pours himself another round, not shaking. 

“I won a spelling bee once,” Brian tells him, desperate to break the ensuing silence. “But it was a tie and I had to share the prize money with the other person.”

“You should have gotten rid of the competition.”

“I was six years old!”

“Still,” Parnassus says, with conviction. There’s a twinkle in the corner of his eye and it’s only then that Brian realizes he may have been teasing. He doesn’t know what to do with the knowledge, too stunned by it to react, so he simply finishes his drink in one go, winces, and asks for more. By his third glass, he’s properly loose and tipsy, slouched in his seat so low his eyes are almost at level with the desk. By that point it feels less like an interrogation when Parnassus asks him about his own son.

“The boy doesn’t respond to me, you know. Stubborn just like his mother.”

Brian shrugs. He wouldn’t shrug around Parnassus were he sober. Parnassus liked clear, direct responses. He hates beating around the bush. Call a spade a spade, he says. This is why he hates doctors. If he has a terminal disease, then there’s nothing anyone can say that can change that. Best to get it over with. Honesty is the best kindness anyone can bestow on another. Parnassus hates lies.

“I’m sure that’s not it,” Brian says. “You just need to spend a little more time with him is all. That’s what kids want. Time with their parents.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Parnassus reflects after a protracted silence. “But who would want to spend time with a monster?”

*

If there’s one thing Brian loves about his job it’s that sometimes Parnassus takes him places: he has friends in high society, friends from old money whose fortune run deep to the ground. Parnassus had been a self-made man. This was a life he had made for himself through sheer tenacity and hard work. 

Parnassus wants him to accompany him to a Charity Bingo with old friends. He has a garment bag cradled in his arms. Brian is worried for a moment about what it contains until Parnassus assures him with a disbelieving note in his voice that it’s just a suit, not somebody’s remains.

“You’ll need something to wear,” he tells Brian. “Your sense of style is horrendous. This is what passes for fashion nowadays?”

Brian glances down at his scuffed up Converse. He’s worn the same pair of jeans in the last three days, granted, but at least his shirt is clean enough, devoid of any suspicious stains. His roommate Matt wears the same shirt for a week, and even his boyfriend isn’t too fussed on hygiene, always in that ugly yellow jumper. 

“You will tell them you’re my protégé,” Parnassus instructs in the long silence that follows, meaning he’s already giving Brian orders hours before the event. 

“What,” says Brian. “Why?” 

“Well,” Parnassus huffs. “They’re going to ask, I know those vultures well. And there is nothing as dignified as being the protégé to a man of good moral character and standing.”

Brian has his misgivings but he takes the suit nonetheless and disappears into one of the bathrooms. The last suit he wore had been the one he had rented for his grandfather’s funeral. It had been ill-fitting, it made him look like he was playing dress up. He’s always had trouble looking for clothes that fit him: too short in the arms, the trouser legs bunching up at the ankles. He’s tall, skinny, with hardly any muscle on him. In school they used to call him a ginger twink. He hated it. Jamie used to tease him about it. Had liked him because of it.

Surprisingly, although maybe not, the suit wears like a glove. The trousers and jacket are a charcoal grey, the dress shirt, which the garment bag also supplies, crisp and white-sharp like the edge of a knife. It’s a warm night for the tail end of July so Brian forgoes the necktie altogether. He could never tie one successfully. Back at home, he used clip-on ties for work.

When he emerges from the bathroom, the jacket folded over one arm and his clothes rolled up and stuffed in a paper bag in the other, still in his Converse, Parnassus runs his gaze over the length of him appreciatively. Then he notices his shoes and tuts. “Come,” he beckons, already walking over to his room where he throws open his closet doors and tugs at the pull cord to light the shadowy inside. 

Brian expects a moth to comically flutter out the darkness but nothing of that sort happens. Instead what he sees are rows and rows of bespoke suits arranged from gradients of light to dark. They come in a variety of styles. It’s a walk-in closet. Brian should have known. He almost never wears the same suit twice. 

Parnassus hands Brian a shoebox with an Italian logo emblazoned in gold on the navy blue cover.

“Wear these. These should fit you.” Parnassus wags a finger in Brian’s face. “Make no mistake: these will only be on loan. You will return them at the end of the evening when I will no longer have need of you.”

“Thanks,” Brian jokes. “That really makes me feel like Cinderella.”

“These shoes are more comfortable than glass slippers, my boy,” Parnassus informs him. “I visited the tannery in Tuscany myself. They use Swiss calf for the leather, which is very beautiful and sturdy. Try them: see for yourself.”

Brian does. Apparently he’s been living under a rock all his life because who knew trying footwear could feel so orgasmic? He doesn’t question where his shoes come from; preferring function over style, any day. The cheaper the shoes the better. But Parnassus’ leather shoes truly make him feel like a cartoon princess, stylish and able to dance the night away. 

All he needs is a prince. Maybe. 

“Finally!” Parnassus huffs, throwing his arms up when Brian finishes tying on his shoes in the bathroom. “I thought you had suffocated in there. Help me with my jacket— ah, yes, thank you.” He slides his arms into the sleeves, and for a moment Brian briefly considers touching his shoulders: they’re right there, in front of him, broad and strong, despite Parnassus’ age, given more heft by the expensive twill. But he keeps his hands down and busies himself with his own jacket, leaving the buttons undone as well as the topmost one of his shirt.

“Do something about your hair,” Parnassus tells him after giving him another thoughtful once-over during which Brian tries his best not to blush under the scrutiny.

“Do you mean the color?” Brian asks as Parnassus starts adjusting things here and there, his sleeves, his collar, the way the jacket sits on the line of his shoulders. 

Parnassus gives him a sharp look. “Don’t be a fool, Barnaby, red is one of the most attractive colors there is, and happens to be my favourite. I meant the style, boy. Use a comb! Your hair looks like a hen’s nest.”

“Oh,” Brian says. He spends another five minutes in the bathroom and after running his fingers through his gelled hair for the fifteenth time, he steps into the hall one final time and asks Parnassus, who is busy selecting a cane from his collection, “How do I look?”

The astonished expression on his face says it all. 

*

“Abraham, you’ve arrived! We’ve all been waiting for you,” says one of Parnassus’ high society friends when they go to sit at their table after exchanging sweaty handshakes (Brian) and curt nods (Parnassus). She’s wearing a black cashmere shawl and an obnoxious purple hat with a huge flower sitting astride it. Parnassus had whispered that she was somebody important’s niece. Frank Lloyd Wright’s or some other now-dead hotshot architect that made his money building museums. 

Everyone who has ever been someone is here in the ballroom of the Four Seasons, repurposed for this event, to play Bingo, drink expensive champagne, and complain about how their children never call them.

The charity is for one of “those cancers”, says Parnassus. He seems to have forgotten which one but they get a blue pin at the door which they are told to wear on their lapel as a symbol of support despite each of their suits costing more than what Brian makes in a year.

“Stay close, don’t let them get to you,” Parnassus warns before they approach the table. “They will ask all sorts of questions — just nod and smile and affect a very strong accent. It will help if they think you’re simple.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Brian mutters. “I’m sure I’ll have a grand old time.” He tries not to roll his eyes, and only does it when Parnassus’ back is turned. He’d gotten excited for nothing. He was really looking forward to a little glitz. But now it all just seemed boring: old people playing Bingo?

Parnassus cuts him with another one of his looks and Brian immediately feels chastised, as if Parnassus could intuit his thoughts; he wouldn’t put it past him. He’s a man of many talents. 

“It’s not always so beautiful, the kind of lifestyle. Money makes people forget they are mortal. And these people, they know immediately if one does not belong in their circle. They will be unkind to you, ruthless. Don’t let them get under your skin.”

“Then why bring me here at all?” The question is out before Brian can rein it in.

Parnassus shrugs. Brian doesn’t think he’s ever seen him shrug before. He has always said uncertainty was unbecoming in a man. “Because, my dear boy,” he says, and claps Brian on the back, another touch Brian isn’t expecting. He’s full of surprises today. “I like having something beautiful hanging off my arm.”

“Try a cat,” Brian says, but Parnassus just looks at him blandly and then laughs, another first.

They sit down with Efram Cox, Gertrude Hauser and her husband Bill, who are all equally bejewelled and wearing fur. To Bill’s right sits Phyllis Stein whose hat keeps getting in the way of servers wending their way from table to table. She’s the first one to acknowledge Brian at all, adjusting her hearing aid and squinting at him. Her make-up is almost Kabuki-like, too red lips, her face bright with powder.

“I’m his protégé,” Brian explains when she keeps staring at him.

“And what exactly does that _entail_?”

Funny she should ask; Brian has no idea. Quickly Parnassus materializes once more after chasing down one of the servers for something stronger than champagne. He has with him a tumbler of scotch, two glasses, which he sets down on the table triumphantly.

“Areyou terrorizing my young companion, Phyllis?”

“Don’t be absurd! I was merely asking him a question. What is it that you do in your free time Barnaby?”

Brian stares at her then glances at Parnassus to look for cues. Is he supposed to be honest? His VISA expires soon and he came here to New York after an American boy told him he loved him and couldn’t live without him. Then he worked at a coffee shop for a while, living on tips, and was almost thrown out of his apartment before landing this job.

“I do amateur pornography,” he says, because his main social tactic is to run with any amiable conversation and warp it into something weird and awkward, in attempt to sound funny. He doesn’t do it on purpose but it just happens from time to time. The air seems to leave the room after that statement. 

The occupants of the table all fall silent but Efram looks only mildly intrigued, about to lean over to probe him with more questions before Gertrude stops him with a hand on his arm.

Then there’s Parnassus who looks almost…impressed, though his lips are parted and his eyes are bright with surprise. He takes a pull of his scotch and then even goes so far as to smirk and say, “Yes, yes, yes. Barnaby is _quite_ the athlete. Very limber, I would say.” He nods solemnly, even though it’s a boldfaced lie and Brian has trouble taking the two flights of stairs to his apartment when the elevator is broken. 

“You should see some of his work. _Erotic_ but very tasteful.”

“Do you have a website?” Efram asks, and Gertrude scoffs at him, horrified.

Then the first round of Bingo begins, and they all take their places, the women rummaging through their expensive purses for a pen to mark their cards. Brian’s face is still warm with a mixture of pride and embarrassment when Parnassus takes the empty seat next to him and silently pours him a glass of scotch. He raises both his eyebrows when Brian glances at him questioningly, then he elbows him in the side. 

“Have a drink,” he says in a low voice, so as not to be overheard by the others. “You’ve earned it for your cheek. The gall on you, Barnaby!” Then he smiles, a genuine one this time, which throws Brian’s center off-balance. If Parnassus were only twenty years younger… but then Brian shouldn’t even be thinking that right now. The man is his employer; Brian looks after his son. And there’s nothing about him Brian likes in a romantic partner, Parnassus who yells at pigeons shitting on his windowsill, who still thinks Eisenhower is president, and garnishes his food with the powdery remains of the half dozen medications he’s required to take. Parnassus who is grumbling after having broken the lead of his pencil.

Brian puts it out of his mind and takes a swig of the proffered drink. It burns going down.

*

The night ends at 11:11 PM. Jacques, who had been on babysitting duty all night, drops Parnassus and a sleeping Mordecai off first. Brian leans out of the open window of the backseat and hurriedly hands Parnassus his shoes. 

Parnassus waves him off. “Return them tomorrow.”

“But I won’t be here tomorrow.”

At Parnassus’ surprised look, Brian adds, “It’s my day off. It’s the weekend.”

“Monday, then.”

“Right,” Brian says, “Monday.” Parnassus nods and taps the roof of the car in farewell and that’s that, the end of a long beautiful evening. It’s a little bit underwhelming. 

And just like Cinderella, Brian turns back into a pumpkin, or a mouse, or a shoe, or how ever that story goes, when Jacques drops him off at his apartment before giving him a wry two-fingered salute and fucking off out of there before the car gets towed or he gets mugged. Brian slumps back into his cramped living room where he catches Techie straddling Matt’s back on the floor and brandishing a magic marker.

Their heads swivel in his direction but Brian doesn’t even ask, just shuts the bedroom door behind him and starts tugging off his borrowed clothes, the jacket, the shirt, the trousers, and then they all go in a neat little pile on the beanbag he keeps by the window. Then he lies on his stomach in his briefs and thinks about nothing. It’s easy. He thinks about nothing for a while, not even Jamie, or his unpaid bills, or the fact his nipples feel good against the scratchy covers. Then he starts wondering about Parnassus and what the old kook could be doing right now. 

He looked good in his suit tonight: black, pinstriped, with golden cufflinks. Regal. He brought his cane, tamed his silver-dark hair with pomade. And he seemed like in such a good mood all throughout the evening, calling Brian _boy_ , pouring him more drinks, introducing him to old chums from the Golf Club and the rest of the high society circuit, showing him off as if he were something that was worth showing off.

People were under the impression they were fucking. Brian isn’t stupid; he knows what those looks mean. But he thought, fuck it, he might as well give them something to talk about, these old suits that secretly turned their noses up at people like Parnassus who made their fortune through hard work and toil. He had come from a family of blue-collar workers, he said. And his own father never learned how to read. 

Brian realizes that he’s pressing his hips against the mattress. He’s rock hard in his briefs, so fast it’s almost ridiculous. It’s been weeks since he’d touched himself, avoiding listening in on Matt and Techie fucking like banshees in the next room while he’s trying to have a morning wank. 

It feels good but at the same time ridiculous. 

Relief washes over him when he shifts to a better position and starts pressing down with his hips, working them harder, faster, burying his face in his pillow when a moan rises up from the back of his throat. He slides his hand inside his briefs and it trembles around the sleek weight of his own cock, slick at the tip with precome, so slick. He wishes it was someone else’s hand on him. He thinks of Jamie, with his hipster glasses and his collection of fedoras and the whorls of tattoos on his back and arms that seemed to ripple like water when he moved. Then he thinks of Parnassus, his face creased in consternation as he read the contents of the back of a milk carton. Parnassus with his hair rough with sleep, sticking up everywhere. Parnassus calling him _boy,_ frowning at him, righting his posture by tapping his back gently with his cane, telling him to _chin up, stop staring at your feet boy._ Parnassus in his study, smirking behind a glass of brandy.

“Shit.” Brian’s mouth opens in a soundless gasp against his pillow. “Shit, shit, shit.” It’s only when he’s about to tip over the edge into orgasm that he slows down and comes to a complete stop, staring at the wall in horror when he realizes he’d been thinking about Parnassus the whole time.

*

Brian turns thirty on a Sunday. He’s got the day off so he’s free to do whatever he wants. The few friends he made in his short time in New York were all Jamie’s so he has no one to call to invite for dinner or a movie or even casually remark that it’s his birthday. After some deliberation, he picks up his phone and makes a long distance call. The other line rings a few times but eventually it goes to voice-mail.Brian doesn’t leave a message. He doubts his parents want to hear from him anyway. After the passionate confession about how he was going to New York to follow Jamie and support his film career, his family made it pretty much clear they wanted nothing to do with him. His mam would’ve sent him a care package. She would’ve made him his favourite cake and let him lick the leftover frosting off from the spoon.

Now Brian just sits there on a lumpy beanbag locked in a staring contest with a pigeon perched knowingly on the fire escape. The pigeon pecks at the window, tilting its head to the side in question, before leaving in a flurry of dark wings, not a pigeon but a crow after all.

Brian shakes his head. Then he slumps further into his seat and sighs.

*

Brian sighs the morning he comes in for work. He sighs as he helps Mordie into the bath. He sighs as he selects clothes for him to wear. He sighs when he collects Mordie’s toys and makes the bed, smoothing out the creases and tucking all the corners. He makes breakfast, squirting syrup all over Mordie’s plate, and sighs.

Under the table, Parnassus taps Brian’s ankle with his cane. He does this sometimes to get his attention. He taps his cane on the floor to announce his entrance in the room; more than once he has used it to part a sea of pedestrians, squeezing his way through a crowded street with hardly any mercy. The cane is a part of him in every way; he hardly leaves the house without it. It’s the first thing he reaches for in the morning, before his Rogaine and the glass of water by his bedside.

“You’ve been sighing all morning,” Parnassus observes, steepling his fingers on the table. He doesn’t look too happy. “Another unbecoming trait, Barnaby.”

“Brian is just sad, dad,” Mordie tells Parnassus matter-of-factly as he forks a triangle of pancake Brian has cut meticulously for him into his mouth. “It was his birthday yesterday. No one got him anything!”

“Mordie!” Brian’s eyes widen in shock. He had hinted earlier while he was giving Mordie a bath that he had turned thirty the day before. When Mordie asked what he did to celebrate, he had said he had done nothing. Which was true enough anyway: he stared at the phone, binge-watched about a dozen episodes of the Great British Bake Off on his laptop, and when he finally crept out of his room to forage for food at 2 in the afternoon, found Matt and Techie flirting in the kitchen. Techie wore what looked suspiciously like Brian’s last clean shirt, and no trousers. It was the worst fucking birthday barring that time Colleen Sullivan whacked him with a bat when she was aiming for the piñata and Brian had to get stitches.

Brian knows he’s feeling sorry for himself. He rubs at the phantom ache where Colleen had made the skin split, all those years ago, when he was ten.

“You’re thirty years old?” Parnassus looks believing. 

“Yes?”

“I thought you were younger. Or older. I have lost my concept of time in the nineties. Everyone under the age of thirty always looks young to me. Did you celebrate?”

“Not really,” Brian confesses ruefully. It’s not like he had anyone to celebrate with. He hadn’t even told anyone it was birthday, except for Mordie, the only person who even remotely cared. He’d given Brian a big hug when Brian told him, then wrote him an IOU card he told Brian he could cash in on once Mordie was old enough and had money to buy him a present. “I just stayed in. All my family and friends are in Ireland.” No one called or e-mailed him either but Brian knows it’s partly his fault. He hasn’t talked to any of his friends since moving to New York. He has a tendency to shut people out when part of his life isn’t go so well.

“I wish you hadn’t told me it was your birthday. Now I feel obligated.”

“Sorry,” Brian says. He isn’t though: it’s pathetic but he wants a little attention from Parnassus. It’s his constant disapproval: addicting and fatherly. Brian wants to please him and he isn’t the only one; Parnassus has a way with people. He has such a commanding presence. Brian has witnessed him tip servers generously when he’s in a good mood. A few times, he’d praised Brian for teaching Mordie something new though probably virtually useless, like spell the word _discombobulate_ or rub his head and pat his belly at the same time.

“You don’t have to take me out for a drink or anything,” Brian tells him. “Though that would be nice,” he adds in a soft mumble.

“I’d get you a balloon but you’re too old for that now. Ah, I’ll get you a tie.”

After breakfast, Parnassus leads him to his bedroom where he hand picks the aforementioned tie from his collection. He rubs a thumb over his bottom lip thoughtfully as he peruses his choices. He has dozens and dozens of them, all expensive, each one different from the last. Thankfully he skips a purple paisley monstrosity and holds up a foulard tie with a tasteful gold and brown pattern.

Brian checks the label in the back. _Roberto Cavalli._ He swallows. Then his eyes nearly bug out of their sockets when Parnassus grabs one of his winter scarves hanging from a long motley row of them. It’s the Burberry one. Brian may have spent most of his childhood in a fish town but he knows what that pattern signifies: wealth, class, decadence. The scarf itself smells like a combination of dust and expensive men’s perfume. Brian fights the urge to sniff it in full view of Parnassus who is already impatiently waiting for the verdict.

“Thank you,” he says, and this time he means it. “You didn’t have to lavish me with gifts.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. I’m just giving things away.” Nimbly, he crosses over to the other side of the room to dig through his dresser, pulling out a box of cigars with a shiny brown varnish. He fiddles with the tiny gold latch, then frees a cigar from its brethren, handing it to Brian before pulling another one for himself to ignite with a lighter in the shape of a pistol.

Brian has never smoked a cigarette in his life. He’d done pot a few times in university, but that been a long time ago. 

“Smoking a cigar is like sex,” Parnassus tells him, and smirks when Brian starts hacking and coughing and banging his fist against his chest mostly in shock. “You need to savor it to enjoy it. A good cigar, like a good lay, can change you forever.”

Brian sputters and breathes out smoke. It burns his lungs, climbs up his nose, choking him like the tender grip of a vice. Parnassus rubs him consolingly on the back, grinning. He looks manic. It’s a strange sight. But Brian mirrors his glee and lets Parnassus continue to pat his back until his breathing normalizes and the coughing subsides. It’s comforting, anyhow. No one’s touched him in a while, he realizes, unless the various elbows and knees bumping into him in the subway counted. 

“Happy Birthday O’Brien,” Parnassus says, a second before his hand drops away from Brian’s shoulder completely. “Now you’re a man.”

*

At the end of the week, Parnassus takes him to Broadway to see a play an old friend is directing. No one from Manhattan goes to Broadway anymore, he says, unless they’re rich widows who can afford it or tourists just passing through. Since moving to New York, Brian had always wanted to see something on Broadway but he never had the time or the money to spare. Jamie, who lived in Brooklyn, kept promising to take him to a show but that didn’t materialize in the one week they spent not getting on each other’s nerves.

Parnassus has the best seats in the house, despite calling at the last minute to announce he was coming. He has connections after all; Brian shouldn’t be so surprised.

Brian wears his birthday tie, the one Parnassus has gifted him, along with his best collared shirt. He even spritzes on some cologne, something he only does on special occasions, like parties or funerals. Matt asks him if he’s going on a date. Brian hesitates for a moment then tells him no. Then he tells him not to wait up. 

Matt shrugs as he licks peanut butter off a spoon. “Have fun,” he says. It sounds sincere.

“You look like an accountant,” Parnassus informs him when the car arrives to pick Brian up. The car noses up the curb and Jacques rolls down the window. His head sticks out. “Hop in, man. I’m double-parked.”

Brian shuffles around the car and quickly slides inside the backseat where it smells like limes and Parnassus’ aftershave. He loves Parnassus’ car and how the backseat is cavernous, the leather soft and buttery you can just melt right into it. Parnassus’ hair is tamed down at the sides tonight. He’s wearing his brown suit, the same one he wore when he interviewed Brian rigorously for the job. He gives Brian’s clothes a brief once-over, skeptical, then his gaze softens when it lingers on Brian’s face.

“Hi,” Brian says, feeling oddly shy. “Where’s Mordie?”

“I hired a babysitter for the night,” Parnassus explains. “Jaques doesn’t do well with children.”

Brian nods. But Parnassus is still looking at him, frowning, and he can’t help but feel self-conscious, rubbing his elbow, twiddling his thumbs. “You have toothpaste— _here_ ,” Parnassus says, indicating his jaw, before conjuring a clean white handkerchief and lending it to him. Brian rubs at his jaw sheepishly, and pockets the handkerchief after promising to wash it by hand so as not to ruin the linen. 

Then they’re off, driving straight into oncoming traffic. 

They find their seats easily; everywhere Parnassus goes, he turns heads and gets the royal treatment. Probably because his connections run deep. And there’s something about him in general — in his stride, in his gait, in the way he holds his shoulders and looks at people. His glance can cut through stone. He has the bearing of someone used to getting his way, who never had to say _please._

It’s a good show, all things considered, quickly-moving and frivolous, and Brian loves it immediately because it’s his first one even though by the second act the gags get repetitive.

During intermissions, they stretch their legs in the lobby, silently judging the other theater-goers. It’s hard to tell the tourists apart from the locals, as most people are dressed in their Sunday best. Briefly, Brian wonders what he and Parnassus look like to others, whether they seem like they’re on a date or just grandfather and grandson enjoying an evening out. He knows they aren’t on a date, but he doesn’t think he’d mind either way. A dirty thought enters his head but he quickly banishes it before it takes shape.

After the show, Parnassus asks him what he’d like for dinner. “Consider this an extension of your birthday present.”

Brian is, of course, giddy, fighting off the grin warping his expression. It’s not everyday Parnassus is generous with him. He can call him a good boy, tell him he’s done a good job, give him expensive castoffs the day after his birthday, but nothing will ever beat Parnassus asking personally what he wants. 

And what does he want? Well for starts, he’s craving pizza.

“Pizza?” Parnassus repeats. He raises both eyebrows. “You want pizza?”

Brian shrugs. He doesn’t care for all that fancy stuff anyway which he’s sure is what Parnassus had in mind when he’d asked the question; he grew up eating a steady rotation of potato, pie, and porridge. If something fell on the floor and seemed clean enough, he’d pick it right up and put it in his mouth, a habit he never grew out of even in adulthood. 

They take the car to the nearest _Sbarro_. Parnassus buys them all a slice each; even Jacques gets a piece. They eat in silence, parked on one side of the street in front of a boarded-up laundromat next to a Chinese general store, washing down the taste of pizza with diet coke because Parnassus has his sugar levels in mind. 

It must be the leftover adrenaline making Brian feel buoyant and light because when Jacques drops them off in Harlem, Brian follows Parnassus into the house to check on Mordie instead of heading straight home. It’s a little after eleven, therefore still early in his book. 

Mordie is asleep, all tucked up comfortably in bed and still wearing his felt pirate hat. 

After Parnassus pays the babysitter and she leaves, he pours them both a glass of brandy to cap off the night. They clink glasses in the study and Parnassus talks about how things used to be in New York, when life was hard but also beautiful: the women, the cars, and the men too.

They toast to that, and Brian leans over the desk and kisses him.

*

Brian kisses him. It takes him five full seconds to realize what he’s done on impulse: he’d kissed Parnassus, cutting him off mid-sentence while he was going on about the stock market crash. Parnassus who is his employer, who is sixty-something years old, who has a bad back, a bad hip, a bad temper, bad credit. Parnassus who is staring at him now, frowning, but not really doing anything else. His eyes are watery dark in the low light of the room.

Brian pulls back, ashamed of himself, putting his glass of brandy down and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He tastes nothing: just the bitter tang of alcohol. He doesn’t meet Parnassus’ eyes. He can’t.

“I’m sorry,” Brian says, his eyes getting wet. “I didn’t mean to do that. I was just — I didn’t know what I was thinking. Shit. I ruined it. Shit, shit, shit.”

Parnassus stays silent, staring, which is even worse than outright rejection. But then he crosses the room in seven sure strides and then he takes Brian’s trembling hand in his and squeezes it. “You’ve had quite the day, O’Brien. I think it’s time for you to go home.” 

“I’m sorry,” Brian says. “I won’t do that again. I’m sorry.”

Parnassus nods, and he looks sympathetic almost, the corner of his lips shining where Brian had kissed him just that once, not even long enough to count as a kiss. “Good night,” he says, nodding again.

Brian takes that as his cue to leave. “Good night.” Then he’s gone.

*

Brian thinks about the kiss the next day when he’s folding laundry in the only laundromat still open after 9PM. He wishes his life was a movie; maybe then it would all work out in the end. There’d be a neat conclusion and fade to black instead of real life that just goes on and on.

Brian’s main source of conflict is that he falls in love with anyone who treats him with unexpected kindness. It’s not love with Parnassus, maybe not yet, because it’s not like Brian spends his evenings masturbating to lewd thoughts of him. There was one time he dreamt about Parnassus spooning him, then in the dream he asked Brian if he saw his bottle of Rogaine.

Brian is fuzzy on the notions of friendship because he either tries to sleep with his friends (Jamie) or follow them loyally to a different country (also Jamie). It’s funny how it only took seconds to ruin whatever good thing he had with Parnassus. He liked his job. It paid well enough. And he loved looking after and playing with Mordie. He used to not say a word when Brian met him; now he’s a bit of a shit which is a vast improvement though not completely ideal.

“Are you all right?”

Brian glances up from stirring his coffee. He’s back in his apartment now; he lost track of time. Techie is making breakfast, wearing an oversized shirt and track bottoms — Matt’s, Brian’s guessing. The clothes swallow him up completely. He and Matt are so in love. Other people have it easy, Brian thinks bitterly, they don’t need to go lusting after their geriatric bosses.

“I think I’m quitting my job,” Brian sighs.

“Why?” Techie asks, his voice pained and trembly. He has red rings around his eyes, probably borne of allergies. This apartment is a dump. It’s mostly due to Matt’s slovenliness. “Is your boss giving you trouble?”

Brian shrugs, the safest non-answer. “W-what are you going to do about rent?” At least one of them is thinking far ahead. Brian is still feeling sorry for himself, like he felt sorry for himself when Jamie told him maybe they were better off as friends because obviously it wasn’t working out. He doesn’t think he can face Parnassus again, not after what he did. Even if they swept it under a rug, their future interactions would be colored by what Brian did. Nothing could ever change that. Brian’s mam was right: he’s an idiot. 

“I could always do those online surveys,” Brian says when considering the question of income.

“Well,” Techie says after an awkward silence, fiddling with a chunk of his hair. “Good luck, Brian.”

Brian thanks him. He’ll need it. Luck hasn’t been on his side for the longest time; so much for being Irish. He doesn’t think he has the courage to give Parnassus his two week’s notice. Turns out, he doesn’t have to, because he gets a call from Mordie the next day who tells him his dad is dying. He sounds panicked, afraid, his voice high-pitched so naturally Brian drops whatever he’s doing and takes the subway to Harlem, throwing a hooded jacket over his pajama bottoms.

But Parnassus isn’t dying, he’s just sprained his ankle. Jacques is standing by his bedside shaking his head, chastising him for running down the stairs. 

Brian feels his stomach tighten up then unclench again at the sight of him. He collapses against the wall in relief. He’s wanted to throw up in the subway; he thought maybe Parnassus had had a stroke. It wouldn’t be the first time after all.

“Mordie said you were dying,” Brian says, by way of greeting.

Parnassus leans up on his elbows and peers up at Brian from where he’s standing in the doorway. His hair is everywhere, a mess. He’s wearing a silk robe over his clothes and his left ankle is wrapped in bandages, elevated on a throw pillow. Mordie is clutching a frozen pack of peas, hovering cautiously by the bedside. 

“I might as well be dying,” Parnassus sniffs. “Today a sprained ankle, tomorrow who knows what ailment!”

“I should be going,” Brian says. It’s Sunday; he shouldn’t be here on his day off wearing pajamas. He turns to leave but then Parnassus calls him over, dismissing everyone from the room including Mordie. Then he tells Brian to close the door, and Brian wants to die.

He does close the door though and sits as far away from him as possible, at the foot of the bed. 

“I’m quitting,” Brian blurts out.

“Then I’m sorry to see you go,” Parnassus says after a moment.

Brian waits for the pin to drop but Parnassus just sits up and takes his earbuds from the dresser, pinching one into his left ear.

“That’s it?”

“Hm?” Parnassus raises both eyebrows. “What?”

“You’re going to just let me go?”

“Is it not what you want? To be free from the shackles of servitude?”

“But—” Brian flushes. “I kissed you! On the mouth!”

“Yes, typically that is where one prefers to kiss unless you’re a hedonist that likes to put your lips to other areas of interest.”

“Mister Parnassus!” Brian scoffs. “The reason I’m quitting is because I may have less than platonic feelings for you! I don’t know if you’ve noticed.”

On that subject, Parnassus is mum. Brian sighs and figures he’s already embarrassed himself enough, turning to go until he feels the soft tap of Parnassus’ cane on his right buttock. “What—”

“Don’t be the fool who cannot tell the difference between flirting and just being nice,” Parnassus tells him as he lowers his cane on top of the covers. He sits up fully, wincing in pain as the movement jars his ankle. “O’Brien, I am old. Look at me. I sprained my ankle and it felt like dying. You don’t want me. You’re young and spry. What’s the turn of phrase? The whole world is your nutshell.”

“Oyster,” Brian supplies. And then, “Doesn’t it bother you? That I — like you?”

“You’re attracted to my character. You’re hardly the first person to express their intent in the last few years. My boy, how do you think Mordecai was conceived?”

Brian shakes his head clear of that last thought. Not right now; he doesn’t need it to confuse him further. “I’m very fond of you,” Parnassus tells him, touching the back of his hand gently. It surprises Brian into looking at his face where a very unreadable expression creases Parnassus’ brows. 

“I don’t care if you’re old,” Brian says, staring at their fingers. Parnassus strokes Brian’s knuckles with his thumb; there are sunspots on the back of his hand, the veins obvious through the papery skin. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Parnassus hums, thoughtful. “Well, I suppose there is no accounting for taste.” 

Brian kisses him; this time Parnassus takes it for all of ten seconds before pulling away with a frown, his hands steady on Brian’s shoulders, keeping him at bay. “You’re a very stubborn boy, aren’t you,” he notes. “I’m not sure whether I—”

Brian kisses him again. Parnassus may be twice his age but he’s still just a man; he isn’t dead, desire doesn’t die with age, and that much becomes clear when Brian undresses himself and Parnassus leans over him to stare admiringly at his body: the soft little nipples, the red thatch of hair cushioning his pink, erect cock, his obvious ribs and soft belly. He hates his body, its lack of definition, and often Brian likes to fuck in the dark where he can hide his imperfections in the shadows. But Parnassus devours it all with a greedy gaze, hungry and completely ravenous, pressing his hand to Brian’s hip and breathing hotly against the side of Brian’s neck. 

Brian can feel the rough stubble on his jaw scraping his skin when Parnassus marks him with his teeth. His cock twitches, pulsing out precome. Something about the roughness cranks up his buttons. He likes the fact that Parnassus prefers to keep all his clothes on, even though Brian can see the distinct outline of his erection through his robe. 

“You’re beautiful,” Parnassus breathes somberly, running his rough hands down every little dip and valley: the little divot between the near-flat pillows of Brian’s chest, the outline of his ribs, his hips, the curves of his collarbones. When his big hand circles Brian’s cock and starts jerking him off, Brian whimpers, chasing the friction with his hips. 

Parnassus goes slow. Torturously slow. “You’re the devil, Mr Parnassus,” Brian groans when Parnassus continues to tease him with steady, lazy strokes. His grin is practically leonine when he covers Brian’s mouth with his own, and Brian sinks into the kiss with a kind of hunger he didn’t know he had all along, gasping when Parnassus nips at his bottom lip, whining when Parnassus breaks for air before surging forward once more to kiss Brian deep and wet. 

Then Brian absolutely loses it when Parnassus lowers his wet mouth to his right nipple, suckling his tit like he’s nursing for milk. That, combined with the pressure on his cock, sends him careening into one of the most intense orgasms of his life and he’s still panting and incoherent when he hears Parnassus start to undo the ties of his trousers. He opens one eye muggily. Parnassus has taken out his cock and it’s — _big._ Though of course Brian should have expected that. Everything about him is, after all: his character, his fortune, his heart. Parnassus gestures for Brian to roll over onto his belly and Brian — oversensitized, dazed to the point of dreaminess — obeys immediately. His cheeks are stinging with sweat.

Parnassus’ pillows smell like a combination of ointment and herbal shampoo. Brian breathes it in and hums happily.

“Cripes!” Parnassus hisses behind him.

Brian lifts his head. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine — ah, just my ankle. Hold still.” He clambers behind Brian, splaying his hand on his shoulder for traction. He’s still fully clothed. Brian lets his head drop on the pillow; he closes his eyes. Two, three seconds later he feels his arse cheeks being parted, first by probing thumbs, then by Parnassus’ cock. Then there are strong hands gripping hips, hauling him up from his comfortable sprawl on the bed. 

Parnassus starts thrusting against him, the head of his cock catching Brian’s rim. 

Brian, naturally, goes crazy, wriggling his arse, letting out a few helpless gasps. He feels his cock twitch in interest, and he’s humping back against Parnassus’ fat old dick before he realizes it, arranged on all fours like a horny dog. _Jesus_ , he thinks to himself, sweat stinging his cheeks. He’s gone off the deep end. And yet: it feels so good. To let the chips fall, let the chips fall, let the chips fall. He rubs his dick against the sheets, never mind that he’s just come and he feels raw and almost painful. He thinks Parnassus could still wring another orgasm from him if he keeps it up.

“You dirty— dirty— boy! Seducing me with your soft hairless body! This ass is ripe for the taking. I’ll fill it with my seed! Ravish you insensate until your ass drips so beautifully with my spend and then I’ll ruin you for every other man that comes after me. I’ll debase you, deflower you, defile you in every way, your ass, your mouth, all of it will be mine—” 

Parnassus comes all over Brian’s back, letting out a shocked noise as he topples on top of Brian. Brian whimpers when his weight crushes him to the bed but he gets used to it eventually, breath evening out as Parnassus’ lips move tenderly across the back of his ear. He’s warm. Not a word Brian would have associated with Parnassus in the beginning but they’re no longer at the beginning anyhow. 

Brian wriggles his arm from where it’s trapped underneath him and reaches over to pet the back of Parnassus’ hair. He’s kissing Brian’s neck madly, like he can’t get enough of him. It’s nice to be wanted. 

Brian wonders if he’ll ever regret this. 

“I think I’ll need help getting up,” Parnassus says after a while when the silence descends and breaks the magic. “I can’t move my ankle.”

*

The deflowering happens two months later after the ankle has healed fully and a new school year begins. It’s hours before Brian has to pick Mordie up from his classes. 

Brian doesn’t have the heart to tell Parnassus he has been fucked in the ass a few times before or that it is in fact his favourite sex act, besides giving blowjobs. Or maybe Parnassus _does_ know, because when he angles his cock against Brian’s hole and pushes in, he doesn’t go slowly, filling Brian up so well the first thrust makes Brian’s cock leak. He fucks Brian for a minute, maybe two, then he stops completely, breathing hard, his arms braced on either side of Brian’s head. He still refuses to take his clothes off so he’s in his dress shirt and vest with his cock out, suspenders hanging by his sides. 

Brian doesn’t know how long Parnassus fucks him. He loses track of time because Parnassus keeps starting and then stopping, his brows creased in concentration, his lips pulled in a menacing thin line. Brian holds his face in his hands and presses his thumbs over the lines in his skin, the ones under his eyes that take longer to disappear. He doesn’t care how old Parnassus is; he likes the way he looks at him. 

“Dirty boy,” Parnassus grunts, thrusting into him, in deep rolling grinds, “Greedy, greedy boy,”

Brian comes so hard his head bangs against the headboard, his body folded in half while Parnassus continues to screw into him like he’s decades younger and running a marathon.

Afterwards, Brian makes the bed, dresses, and goes about his errands: picking up laundry, buying ingredients for dinner, then stopping by his apartment for a change of clothes. When he returns, he finds Parnassus rifling through the endless stack of mail in the foyer and complaining about relatives in Florida who are out for his money. “Vultures!” he cries. “The lot of them!” 

Nothing changes. The world moves. Brian climbs into bed with Parnassus and climbs out relatively the same, though a little scratched up and sore with a noticeable limp in his step. Who knew those tennis lessons would come in handy? Brian’s never had sex that intense in his life. 

Later when Brian and Mordecai go over homework together, Mordecai sniffs his hair and makes a face, shoving him off. “Brian!” he groans. “You smell like dad! Ew!”

And sure enough when Brian sniffs at himself, he smells like Rogaine. He ought to be mortified, disgusted, aghast, but really he feels the opposite of that.

*

The truth is: Brian had followed a boy to New York. The boy’s name was Jamie and he owned two dozen different hats. Sometimes Brian sees him hanging around coffee shops in Brooklyn, or hears his laughter in a crowded room. But that boy is part of his past now, the same way Dublin is, and the fish town he came from whose location people have a hard time finding on a map.

When Brian is thirty, two things happen: he grows up and falls out of love. He grows up and falls out of love with Jamie, and falls into bed with the grumpiest man in all of Manhattan but that grumpy man is very fond of him and is sometimes sweet and kind so it all works out in the end. They live in harmony on 111 Archer Avenue in a three-story townhouse with moth-eaten curtains and dusty carpets and mice running through the pipes at night. The man used to be an oil baron and he used to be a young man too, just like Brian, and he made his fortune drilling for oil and working long hours into the night.

Nowadays, he spends his afternoons beating Brian at chess, at bridge, at poker, at scrabble, correcting his posture with his cane and reading to him in French. 

It’s not the life Brian had envisioned for himself coming to New York. But it’s the best outcome of all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
